


Old Ghosts

by GoldenClover



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 09:24:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7262272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenClover/pseuds/GoldenClover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war’s over. Finally over. Like a wave of ice-cold Okinawa rain, it washes over Eugene and leaves him dazed and shocked. After months and years and centuries and millenniums surrounded by thick, choking Peleliu dust and air stinking of blood and ash and smoke, he’s going home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Ghosts

            The war’s over. Finally  _over_. Like a wave of ice-cold Okinawa rain, it washes over Eugene and leaves him dazed and shocked. After months and years and centuries and millenniums surrounded by thick, choking Peleliu dust and air stinking of blood and ash and smoke, he’s going _home_. Not to be shipped off to some other death sentence of an island, not for a short reprieve, only to be sent back to hell, but _home_. _Home for good_. Already, the near-forgotten floral stench of his mother’s perfume, a scent memorized from childhood, stains his nose and wafts up into his brain, conjuring back a thousand other things he’d thought died with him on that first day in Peleliu. The sound of cicadas chirping on a hot summer’s night buzzes in his ears, the taste of pure, simple home-baked bread flood his tastebuds and travels around his tongue, the safe, protected feeling of his father’s hand on his arm lingers, a daydream resting on skin. And all the sensations, memories, words, feelings, they swirl around him like ghosts calling to him, _Eugene, Eugene, come home and we’ll be there, just how you left us when you signed yourself away to war and nothing will have changed, nothing at all._

            And he wants to believe those little voices, but hiding behind their eager coaxings, just waiting for the right time to make its entrance, a whisper builds itself into a scream, pounding in his ears and reminding him of everything he’s done his best to ignore until now. It reminds him of the mud and dirt and gore and screams. It reminds him of the blood and guts and horror. It reminds him that he’s no picture-perfect mama’s boy anymore. He isn’t a good little bible-reading, church-going doctor’s son anymore. He doesn’t wear fresh, rosy cheeks and carefully cut jackets and slacks, not now. He wears an elegant suit of torn, grey-green uniform, with a helmet for his hat, and a fashionably tailored coat of blood; he is accessorized by shining metal dog tags, and dances with the Japanese in heavy boots and a rifle for style. The balls he attends are made up of the most selective guests; rotting corpses, screaming babies, dying soldiers, and terrified civilians. Accompanied, of course, by a fabulous feast of poisoned water and old food in a can. And the night is always sure to end with a bang. Literally.

            But now, the party’s over and he’s going home. Home to flash strained smiles and act like everything’s okay, like nothing’s changed at all. He’ll sit obediently and grin politely while his mother gloats about her _baby, the war hero_. He’ll attend balls and parties and dance with just enough girls and make just enough small talk that no one will worry. And they’ll tell all their friends about him, _did you hear? The Sledge’s boy just came home, oh yes, his parents are very proud. Fought_ so _bravely in the war, brought a Japanese flag back. Quite the catch, truly, I’ve been thinking about setting him up with my niece._ And he’ll grimace and pretend not to notice the whispers, the gossip. He’ll put up with every girl sent his way by some aunt or grandmother or mama, because that’s what’s expected of him. And they won’t know, none of them will know, about trudging through the muck and maggots, blood staining your very bones, not knowing if you’re going to make it to bedtime, not knowing whether to pray to God to keep you alive so you can go home or to beg Him just let you die and end it all, end all the stink and screams and terror. And a part of Eugene thinks maybe, maybe it would be better if the war never ended. If he could just continue to spend his time making crude jokes with Burgie and Snaf and cleaning his rifle and eating stale rice. Because at least they would understand. Would understand why he cries out at night and why he’ll never truly look at a mud puddle the same again, they would understand and empathize, never sympathize. And they’d all be figuring it out together.


End file.
